Jteth 
Zes, 


Reims* 


2j4< 

MARNE 


PIS 


SEINE  -ET-MARNE 


COCO'S  ITINERARY 

BATTLE  of  the  MARNE 

BATTLE  of  the  AI S  N  E 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


WARrtHE 
CREATOR 

BY-  GELETT 
BURGESS— 


New  York    B.  W.  HUEBSCH       1916 


15JI 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY  P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON,  INC. 
COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY  B.  W.  HUEBSCH 


WAR  THE  CREATOR  was  first  printed  in 
Collier's.  Acknowledgment  is  made  to  that 
weekly  for  permission  to  publish  the  story 
in  volume  form. 


PRINTED  IN  U.  S.  A. 


WAR  THE  CREATOR 


TTJ  ECAUSE  he  was  my  friend,  because  he 
-*-'  was  so  lovable,  because  he  suffered 
much,  I  want  to  try  to  tell  the  story  of  a  boy 
who,  in  two  months,  became  a  man.  My 
hero  is  Georges  Cucurou,  the  son  of  a  shoe- 
maker of  Toulouse.  I  happened  to  see  him 
first  just  before  the  war  began,  and  not  again 
until  after  he  had  been  wounded;  and  the 
change  in  him  was  then  so  great  that  I  could 
not  rest  until  I  had  learned  how  it  had  been 
brought  about.  Georges  is  but  one  of  the 
thousands  who  have  gone  into  that  furnace 
of  patriotism;  in  France  such  experiences  as 
his  are  commonplace  now,  but  when  I  heard 

[5] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


his  story  I  got  a  glimpse  of  war  in  a  new 
aspect.  Before,  I  had  thought  of  it  only  as 
stupid,  destructive,  dire ;  now,  in  his  illumined 
face,  I  saw  the  work  of  War  the  Creator. 

His  narrative  is  concerned  with  only  the 
first  six  weeks  of  the  fighting,  and  mostly  with 
that  terrible  retreat  from  Belgium,  so  bitter 
in  its  disappointments,  so  trying  to  the  flam- 
boyant courage  of  the  French.  Hardly 
had  they  rallied  along  the  Marne  and 
begun  to  pursue  the  enemy  when  Georges 
was  wounded  and  invalided  home.  It  was 
there  in  the  hospital  that  I  got  his  history; 
and  from  those  talks,  and  his  notebook,  and 
his  letters  to  his  aunt,  I  have  reconstructed 
the  trials  and  emotions  of  this  lad  of  twenty. 

II 

Georges,  having  commenced  his  regular 
three  years'  military  service  in  October,  1913, 
[6] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


got  leave  to  visit  his  aunt  who  was  keeping 
a  pension  in  Paris. 

How  shy  and  confused  he  was  when  I 
came  down  to  the  dining-room  that  day  and 
surprised  him  while  he  was  examining  his  too- 
faint  mustache  with  great  seriousness  before 
the  mirror!  Charming,  I  thought  him,  in- 
stantly; a  clean,  jolly  sort  of  boy,  quite  too 
young  for  that  ridiculous  soldier's  uniform. 

His  aunt  introduced  him  (with  her  arm 
about  his  shoulder  and  a  tweak  of  his  ear)  by 
his  nickname,  "  Coco  " ;  and,  after  he  got 
used  to  my  being  a  foreigner,  he  began  to 
talk,  using  his  big  brown  eyes  and  his  free, 
expressive  hands  quite  as  much  as  his  tongue. 
Knowing  a  little  of  the  Midi,  I  attempted  an 
imitation  of  the  patois.  Coco  threw  back 
his  head  and  laughed  with  abandon.  That 
broke  the  ice,  and  we  became  great  friends. 

He  was  so  curious  about  everything 
American  that  I  took  him  up  to  my  salon  to 

[7] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


see  my  typewriter ;  also  my  neckties  and  fancy 
socks. 

"But  what's  this?"  asked  Coco,  reading 
with  his  funny  French  pronunciation,  "  A- 
mer-i-cain  Pencil  Compagnie."  It  was  a 
novelty,  a  "  perpetual "  pencil  of  the  self- 
sharpening  sort,  with  a  magazine  filled  with 
little  points  like  cartridges.  When  I  gave  it 
to  him,  it  pleased  Coco  immensely. 

"  Just  like  a  rifle  1  "  he  exclaimed,  as  he 
amused  himself  by  pressing  the  end  and  eject- 
ing the  bits  of  lead.  He  went  through  the 
manual  of  arms  with  it,  laughing;  he  did  a 
mock  bayonet  thrust  or  two,  and  then  aimed 
it  at  me  in  fun,  like  a  child.  "Pan!"  he 
cried;  "  that's  the  way  we  shoot  Germans!  " 
The  contrast  of  his  red  pantaloons  and  blue 
coat  with  the  round,  innocent  face  and  lips 
parted  like  a  girl's  was  absurd.  Why,  he 
was  more  like  those  doll  soldiers  you  see  at 
toyshops  with  curly  hair  I  With  his  fresh 
[8] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


pink  cheeks  and  big  brown  eyes  he  seemed  no 
more  than  sixteen  years  old. 

In  the  evening  we  all  went  out  on  the 
crowded  Boulevard,  where,  it  being  a  fete 
day,  they  were  dancing  in  front  of  the  open- 
air  band  stands.  It  was  a  long  time  before 
I  ceased  to  think  of  Coco  as  jolly,  flushed, 
exuberant,  dancing  the  Tango  on  the  corner 
by  the  Sorbonne  with  his  pretty  young  aunt, 
as  excited  and  happy  as  only  a  lad  can  be 
who  has  come  up  from  a  provincial  town  to 
see  the  metropolis  for  the  first  time  on  a  holi- 
day. 

That  was  on  the  I4th  of  July  of  1914. 
Next  day  he  went  back  to  his  caserne  at  Mon- 
tauban. 

In  two  weeks  war  was  declared  I 

Coco,  our  own  blithe  Coco,  would  have 
to  go  to  the  front  —  oh,  his  aunt's  white  face 
that  day !  —  and  Coco  would  be  in  the  first 
line !  It  seemed  like  some  hideous  mistake. 

[9] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


But  already  Coco,  pink-cheeked,  laughing, 
shy,  his  mother's  only  boy,  was  well  on  his 
way  toward  the  German  shells  and  machine 
guns! 

Ill 

The  French  do  nothing  without  a  flavor- 
ing of  sentiment.  Rhetoric  flowers  in  the 
official  proclamations;  it  makes  one  laugh 
even  to  read  the  textbooks  for  soldiers, 
they  are  so  strewn  with  fine,  resounding 
phrases;  and  so,  of  course,  it  was  quite  im- 
possible for  Coco's  regiment  to  get  away 
without  one  of  those  stirring,  gesticulative 
speeches  by  the  colonel. 

It  was  at  the  Toulouse  railway  station  — 
parents  in  tears.  The  girls  gazed  admir- 
ingly. Gossipy  veterans  of  '70,  seeing  them- 
selves reincarnated  in  these  fresh  young  sol- 
diers, patronized  them  egregiously  with  ad- 
vice. Coco  and  the  other  lads  listened,  but 

[10] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


did  not  hear;  they  were  smiling  at  the  girls 
sticking  bouquets  in  their  rifle  barrels. 

"  Look  back  for  the  last  time  at  your 
homes  and  your  loved  ones,"  cried  the  col- 
onel, with  all  his  badges  on  his  breast,  "  and 
shed  the  tear  without  which  our  high  sacrifice 
would  not  have  its  price.  Lift  up  your 
hearts,  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth,  my  chil- 
dren —  en  avant!  " 

Children  indeed  they  were,  overflowing 
with  the  emotion  of  the  south,  these  soldiers, 
and  our  Coco,  with  a  gulp  in  his  throat, 
seemed  even  more  young  than  most.  The 
war !  How  often  had  he  heard  it  predicted 
for  that  year,  or  the  next,  or  the  next  —  the 
inevitable  war  that  was  to  give  France  her 
long-hoped-for  revenge.  Now,  it  was  actu- 
ally here!  No  more  blank  cartridges,  no 
more  sham  battles  —  War! 

But  Coco's  tears  soon  dried.  They  were 
a  merry  lot,  those  twenty-year-old  "  piou- 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 

pious"  even  on  that  tiresome  trip  to  the 
front.  The  youngsters  had  the  worst  of  it 
during  the  mobilization.  They  sat  all  that 
journey  on  rough-board  temporary  benches 
in  the  luggage  vans.  Starting  and  stopping, 
side-tracking  and  backing  —  munching  the 
emergency  rations  (hard  tack  and  canned 
beef),  for  mother's  cheese  and  chocolate 
didn't  last  long  —  waving  and  yelling  to 
the  patriotic  spectators  along  the  line,  it 
took  them  almost  three  days  to  reach  Cha- 
lons. 

At  the  military  camp  two  more  days  were 
spent  in  concentration,  exercises,  and  inspec- 
tion. The  last  orders  were  received. 
Then,  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the 
sixth  of  August,  the  column  started  for  the 
frontier. 

Coco  was  a  private  in  the  Tenth  Company 
of  the  Twentieth  Regiment  of  Infantry. 
His  army  corps,  the  Seventeenth,  formed  the 
[12] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


left  wing  of  the  Fourth  Army.  On  their 
left,  paralleling  their  march,  was,  first,  Gen- 
eral Ruffey's  cavalry  division,  and  beyond 
that  the  Fifth  Army,  under  General  Lan- 
rezac.  On  the  extreme  left  wing  of  the  ad- 
vance were  the  British.  Meanwhile,  march- 
ing on  Lorraine  and  Alsace,  were  the  Sixth 
and  Seventh  Armies.  With  all  these  columns 
hurrying  to  the  front,  filling  all  the  roads, 
railway  transportation  was  impossible.  It 
was  a  march  of  some  seventy  miles  to  the 
frontier. 

So,  through  the  lovely  forest  of  Argonne, 
the  boys  set  out,  singing  and  joking  as  they 
strode  along.  It  was  pleasant  enough  at 
first,  a  romantic  adventure;  but  with  his 
heavy  rifle,  his  heavy  cartridge  belt  and  bay- 
onet, and  his  musette  full  of  food  slung  over 
his  shoulder,  it  was  not  long  before  poor  Coco 
began  to  get  weary.  On  his  back,  with  his 
knapsack,  and  his  rolled  overcoat  and  his  tin 

[13] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


bidon  and  tin  gamelle,  with  the  intrenching 
tool  and  his  share  of  the  company's  baggage, 
he  carried  fully  sixty  pounds.  They  marched 
on  one  side  of  the  road.  Along  the  other 
side  automobiles  whirled  incessantly  back  and 
forth,  motor  busses  filled  with  provisions 
rumbled  along,  dispatch  bearers  on  motor- 
cycles, officers  on  horseback  —  raising  dust 
a-plenty. 

Coco's  chum  —  his  "  copain  " —  was 
Frangois  Foulot,  the  son  of  a  cabinetmaker 
in  Toulouse,  a  big,  athletic,  kind-hearted 
chap  with  a  bushy  black  pompadour.  Coco 
had  told  me  about  him  in  Paris.  The  two 
boys  were  members  of  a  little  musical  and 
dramatic  club  in  Toulouse,  and  had  been 
friends  from  childhood.  You  should  hear 
Coco  tell  how,  on  that  long  march,  Frangois 
took  care  of  him,  carrying  his  rifle  when 
Coco  was  tired,  carrying  even  Coco's  knap- 
sack for  him,  helping  him  grease  his  boots  at 
[-4] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


night  when  Coco's  feet  began  to  blister. 
Francois  was  like  a  big  brother. 

At  the  nightly  bivouacs  along  the  road  the 
two  boys  always  slept  side  by  side;  that  is, 
when  they  slept  at  all.  The  excitement  (and 
the  hard  ground)  for  the  first  few  nights  kept 
them  wide  awake,  in  spite  of  their  fatigue. 

"  Mon  Dieu,  how  will  this  all  end?  "  they 
asked  each  other.  Coco  didn't  know,  Fran- 
c,ois  didn't  know ;  but  neither  thought  the  war 
could  possibly  last  more  than  a  few  months. 


IV 

Yet  there  was  a  terrible  earnestness  about 
it  all  that  sobered  them.  There  was  some- 
thing still  more  terribly  earnest  ahead! 
Every  automobile  that  whizzed  past  them, 
coming  in  hot  haste  from  the  front,  an- 
nounced it.  Every  galloping  supply  wagon, 
every  crouching  motorcyclist  in  uniform 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


flashing  by  told  the  same  frantic  story: 
"Hurry!  Hurry  I  Hurry!  The  Ger- 
mans are  almost  here!  France  is  in  dan- 
ger!" 

On  those  first  nights,  when  Coco's  turn 
came  to  stand  on  sentry  duty  by  the  lonely 
corner  of  a  wood,  his  eyes  strained  into  the 
darkness,  listening  for  every  sound,  the  sight 
of  a  bush  waving  in  the  wind  often  brought 
his  gun  to  his  shoulder  with  a  quick,  excited 
"Halte-la!" 

For  Coco,  sensitive,  earnest,  and  not  a  lit- 
tle fearful,  was  in  a  high  nervous  tension. 
Already  the  Germans  were  fighting  in  Bel- 
gium —  the  killing  had  commenced.  From 
one  of  the  villages  they  passed  the  boy  wrote 
a  brave  little  letter  to  his  mother  on  a  post 
card:  "If  anything  should  happen  .  .  . 
well,  one  knows  one's  duty,  and  God  will  do 
the  rest.  Lovingly,  Coco." 

On,  on,  through  the  hilly  forests  of  Ar- 
[16] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


gonne  they  marched,  making  about  twenty- 
five  miles  a  day.  And  on  that  dusty  march 
food  was  scarce.  Poor  Coco's  feet,  despite 
the  tallow  in  his  socks,  were  too  sore  for  him 
to  chase  chickens,  but  Francois  succeeded  in 
capturing  seven.  Not  much,  however,  when 
their  necks  were  wrung,  for  a  company  of 
250  men.  Even  the  bread  began  to  run  out. 
But  on  they  went,  singing  by  day  and  shiver- 
ing by  night  —  on,  on  toward  Belgium. 
Coco  says  that  their  chief  worry  was  lest  they 
shouldn't  find  enough  straw  to  sleep  on,  or  at 
least  enough  to  tie  up  their  feet  in  bundles  to 
keep  them  warm. 

At  Mouzon  they  crossed  the  Meuse,  and 
here  Coco  slept  more  comfortably  than  he 
had  for  a  week,  on  a  sack  full  of  straw  at  a 
farm.  After  a  day's  wait  for  orders  —  and 
no  meat  even  here  —  they  set  out  again, 
passed  through  Carignan,  and  soon  reached 
the  last  village  in  France  —  Florenville. 

[17] 


WAR    THE     CREATOR 


"  Don't  send  me  any  more  French  money," 
Coco  here  wrote  to  his  mother.  "  It  won't 
be  any  use  to  me  now  1  "  Poor  Coco !  How 
little  did  he  know  how  soon  he  was  to  re- 
turn I 


On  the  morning  of  August  21  they  crossed 
the  boundary.  Hurrahs  from  the  men  — 
they  were  going  forward  to  conquer  I  They 
were  going  to  deliver  this  brave  little  country 
from  the  barbaric  invader  who  had  laid  it 
waste.  Coco  was  thrilled  with  the  nobility 
of  their  mission.  "Five  la  France!"  he 
shouted  with  all  the  rest;  but  alas,  the  ap- 
proaching thunderstorm  soon  damped  his 
spirits.  The  rain  poured  down  in  torrents, 
down  the  back  of  his  neck  and  into  his  shoes. 
Coming  to  a  halt,  they  bivouacked  in  a 
wide  field.  It  thundered  and  it  lightened. 
Soaked  and  cheerless,  the  regiment  tried 
[18] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


to  sleep.  The  fires  wouldn't  burn.  One 
couldn't  even  smoke  a  cigarette.  As  Coco 
turned  on  his  side  the  water  oozed  under  him 
sloshily. 

He  dozed  off,  however,  after  a  while,  only 
to  be  awakened  by  a  punch  in  the  ribs. 
"Listen!"  Frangois  was  saying.  "What's 
that?" 

"  Thunder,  of  course !  "  Coco,  irritated, 
rolled  over  again,  opened  his  eyes  after  a 
while,  and  saw  Frangois  still  sitting  up,  alert. 

"  That's  not  thunder  I  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Listen !  it's  cannonading !  " 

Coco  sat  up  now  quickly  enough.  Others 
woke  up  to  swear  at  them  ^-  and  then  they 
listened,  too. 

"  Look  I "  cried  Frangois.  Galloping 
down  the  road  came  a  dispatch  rider.  He 
halted,  was  challenged  by  the  sentry,  and 
turned  in  at  the  colonel's  headquarters. 
Then  he  was  off  again,  splattering,  clattering 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


through  the  mud.  Then  a  bugle  call: 
"  Fall  in!  "  All  over  the  field  the  wet  men 
jumped  up,  slung  on  their  belts,  grabbed  their 
rifles  and  formed  dismally  in  the  rain.  As 
they  stood  waiting,  word  ran  down  the 
column  —  Francois  passed  it  to  Coco  — 
"The  enemy!"  An  ammunition  wagon 
drove  up  —  boxes  of  cartridges  were  dis- 
tributed. "  Load !  "  ordered  the  captains. 
The  ranks  were  fairly  buzzing  now,  every- 
one asking  questions,  nobody  answering.  A 
whistle  blew.  "  Forward,  march!  "  Coco 
had  no  thought  of  the  rain  now  1  The  guns 
grew  louder,  but  still  no  enemy  was  visible. 
The  cannonading  slackened,  grew  faint,  thun- 
dered off  in  another  direction,  died,  began 
again  far  away.  But  the  rumbling  was  al- 
ways ahead  —  the  regiment  was  marching 
nearer  and  nearer  the  fighting.  And  so  on 
to  Bertrix,  fifteen  miles  from  the  frontier. 
Coco  rather  liked  Bertrix.  Bertrix  rather 
[20] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


more  than  liked  Coco.  The  pretty  little 
Luxemburg  town  welcomed  him  and  all  the 
other  young  "  piou-pious "  as  its  saviors. 
Nothing  was  too  good  for  the  French  soldier 
boys  who  had  come  to  deliver  them  from  the 
Huns.  What  do  you  want  —  cigarettes  ? 
beer?  bacon?  It  was  quite  a  jolly  affair, 
with  the  streets  full  of  smiling  women  and 
young  girls  smiling  too,  bringing  fruit  and 
eggs  and  preserves,  and  good,  fresh  butter. 

Coco  was  already  a  hero  —  and,  after 
eight  days  without  meat,  that  bacon  was  cer- 
tainly good!  How  they  all  laughed  and 
chattered  1  But  the  old  men  stood  apart  and 
listened  anxiously;  for,  through  all  that  re- 
joicing there  came  steadily  the  distant  sound 
of  guns.  Surely  the  Germans  were  coming 
nearer!  If  they  ever  got  to  Bertrix  — 
The  old  men  shook  their  heads  with  forebod- 
ing. 

Again  the  whistle  blew  —  Forward!    The 

[21] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


enemy  was  only  a  few  miles  away  now;  it 
was  getting  exciting.  The  boys,  proud, 
patriotic,  confident,  started  "  La  Mar- 
seillaise "  and  the  song  was  taken  up  by  the 
whole  column  — "  Marchons!  Marchons!  " 
they  sang  —  but  Coco  was  singing,  he  admits, 
to  keep  up  his  courage,  as  he  tramped  on 
through  the  mud  to  be  shot  at.  He  tried  to 
keep  in  mind  that  he  was  marching  on  glori- 
ously to  fight  for  his  country ;  but  he  couldn't 
help  thinking  of  what  he  had  heard  of  those 
terrible  machine  guns  at  Liege  and  Namur. 

Halt!  The  captain  whipped  out  his  field 
glasses  —  everybody  gazed  eagerly  ahead. 
There  it  was,  there!  coming  steadily  nearer, 
flying  low  —  a  German  aeroplane  —  a 
"  Taube "  reconnoitering.  There  was  a 
quick  order.  As  the  whir  of  the  motor  grew 
nearer  the  lieutenant  of  Coco's  platoon 
pointed.  "Aim!"  Fifteen  rifles  were 
thrown  up,  covering  the  monoplane. 
[22] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


"  Steady,  now,  men  —  wait  till  she  comes 
near  enough  —  now,  Fire!  " 

Coco  fired,  jammed  down  the  lever  of  his 
gun,  shot  again,  again.  Almost  over  their 
heads  the  flyer  seemed  to  stop,  turned,  vol- 
planed swiftly  down  —  it  was  too  good  to  be 
true  —  swept  lower  in  a  wide  curve.  Then 
men,  shouting,  ran  for  it  as  it  swooped  into 
the  field  beside  the  road.  Coco  ran  for  his 
first  sight  of  a  German. 

Two  officers  in  khaki,  limp  and  pale,  were 
strapped  to  the  seats.  One  was  unconscious, 
with  a  red  hole  in  his  neck.  The  other  pain- 
fully unfastened  his  strap,  and  came  forward, 
staggering.  He  saluted  the  captain  stiffly,  a 
queer  smile  on  his  blond  German  face.  Coco 
heard  him  say  in  perfect  French  : 

"  I  am  badly  wounded,  monsieur.  This 
is  my  last  trip,  I'm  afraid.  Ah,  well;  you 
are  going  to  beat  us  in  the  end,  no  doubt. 
With  all  your  allies  there's  little  hope  for  us. 

03] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


But  you'll  have  to  shed  a  good  deal  of  blood 
before  you  win  1  "  Then  he  suddenly  col- 
lapsed. Coco  saw  him  fall  on  the  ground  in 
a  faint. 

"  It  gave  me  a  mighty  queer  feeling," 
Coco  told  me,  "  to  look  at  that  dark  spot  of 
blood  gradually  growing  bigger  and  bigger 
over  that  officer's  breast.  I  remember  that 
I  wondered  if  it  had  been  my  rifle  ball  that 
had  wounded  him.  And  that  other  German, 
too  —  I  wondered  if  I  had  already  killed  a 
man.  If  I  had,  why  wasn't  it  murder? 
What  was  the  difference  between  war  and 
murder,  anyway?  Of  course  these  barbar- 
ians were  invading  my  country,  but  —  yes,  it 
was  my  duty  to  protect  France,  but  —  well,  I 
had  to  give  it  up.  You  know  there  are 
priests  fighting  in  the  ranks,  too,  in  this  war, 
m'sieur!  They  must  know.  It's  all  right, 
I  suppose  —  and  yet  there  is  always  that 
'  but '  when  you  see  a  thing  like  that.  Well, 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


it  was  too  exciting  then  for  much  philosophy. 
You  see,  the  cannons  were  getting  louder  all 
the  time,  and  the  whistle  blew  and  we 
marched  on  again.  But  somehow  we  didn't 
feel  much  like  singing  any  more  1  " 

Near  rising  ground  they  halted.  The  of- 
ficers hurried  forward,  and  with  field  glasses 
inspected  the  country  ahead;  then  called  the 
column  on.  Now  they  were  actually  in  the 
danger  zone  —  a  wide  expanse  of  fields, 
dotted  with  farms  here  and  there,  and  across, 
a  mile  away,  were  woods,  dark,  sinister.  It 
was  a  sunny  afternoon ;  the  odor  of  the  damp, 
warm  earth  was  clean  and  pungent.  There 
were  wide  stretches  of  yellow  stubble  fields, 
where  the  wheat  had  been  lately  cut.  Some 
sheaves  were  still  standing,  as  if  the  war  had 
interrupted  the  harvest,  half  done. 

As  they  advanced  cautiously  the  cannonad- 
ing ceased.  Somehow  to  Coco  the  silence 
was  more  dreadful  even  than  that  incessant 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


muffled  reverberation.  But  those  woods  yon- 
der—  what  dangers  were  they  hiding? 
Every  eye  was  strained  in  that  direction. 

Deploying  to  the  left  of  the  road,  Coco's 
company  made  for  a  whitewashed  farmhouse 
half  a  mile  away,  across  the  fields.  The 
other  companies  fanned  out  to  either  side. 

No  one  seemed  to  know  just  what  was  go- 
ing to  happen.  Coco's  lieutenant,  a  jolly, 
talkative  young  fellow  who  had  always  used 
to  keep  his  platoon  roaring  at  his  jokes,  was 
now  unwontedly  serious  and  silent.  Coco 
watched  him.  He  marched  on  with  his  field 
glasses  held  constantly  to  his  eyes,  tripping 
over  roots  and  bushes  and  stones  and  swear- 
ing as  he  went. 

On  and  on  toward  that  dark,  mysterious 
wood  through  beet  fields,  across  ditches,  over 
hedges  they  went,  till  they  came  to  a  cross- 
road leading  into  the  farm.  Here  they 
halted. 

[26] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


Coco,  nervous,  apprehensive,  jumped  at 
hearing  his  name  called  out.  "  Cucurou! 
Bracques!  Lemaitre!  Go  forward  and 
reconnoiter !  Careful,  now,  men  1 " 


Coco  wondered  why  they  had  to  call  on 
him;  but,  well,  it  had  to  be  done,  his  duty, 
and  he  did  it.  With  a  man  on  either  side  of 
him  he  walked  forward  gingerly  through  a 
field  where  cows  were  grazing,  nearer  and 
nearer  that  horrible  wood.  He  didn't  dare 
look  at  the  ground ;  as  he  stumbled  on  his  eyes 
never  left  that  wood,  so  deathly  still  and  mys- 
terious. Were  there  Germans  hidden  in 
those  trees?  It  was  his  duty  to  find  out. 
Bracques  and  Lemaitre  didn't  falter;  so  Coco 
didn't  falter.  He  kept  right  on,  nearer  and 
nearer.  His  one  idea  was  the  importance  of 
first  seeing  the  enemy. 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


Then,  suddenly,  he  heard  a  high,  sharp 
whistling  through  the  air,  and  the  bullet  spat- 
tered the  earth  viciously  in  front  of  him.  A 
report  cracked  lazily  out  from  the  trees. 
Another  whistle,  another,  and  the  pattering 
grew  nearer.  Coco  dropped  flat  on  the 
ground,  and  crawled  cautiously  up  to  a  big 
rock  and  looked  over  the  top,  watching. 
Still  nothing  was  visible.  The  balls  came 
faster  now;  but  he  crawled  warily  forward, 
dragging  himself  along  the  ground  a  little 
further. 

Lemaitre  yelled,  "  Come  on  back !  we've 
drawn  their  fire  —  that's  enough,"  and  Coco, 
with  his  heart  thumping,  was  glad  enough  to 
return,  running  for  all  he  was  worth  till  he 
had  reached  his  company.  The  men  were 
fretful  and  restless  with  excitement,  nervous, 
exclamatory.  With  a  high,  snoring  drone,  a 
German  shell  came  driving  through  the  air 
* —  a  boom  from  the  woods  —  then  a  sudden, 

[28] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


terrifying  crash  as  of  thunder  let  loose  as  it 
burst  in  the  rear.  Coco  turned  to  see  a  vol- 
cano of  black  smoke  and  earth  behind  him. 
"  Lie  down!  "  shouted  the  officers,  and  the 
men  only  too  willingly  dropped  flat  in  the 
road.  "  At  first,"  said  Coco,  "  the  men  lay 
looking  up  into  the  air  trying  to  see  the  shells 
—  imagining  that  they  really  could !  But 
when  the  things  dropped  closer,  they  began 
to  dodge  —  as  if  one  could  escape  them  that 
way  I  "  More  shells  came,  and  more,  buzz- 
ing through  the  air  in  a  screeching  crescendo, 
bursting  with  appalling  smashes  nearer  and 
nearer  the  line.  Then  a  whistle  blew.  For- 
ward! All  along  the  front  men  jumped  up, 
ran  ahead,  dropped,  then  rose  and  ran  fur- 
ther in  a  long,  irregular  skirmish  line,  toward 
that  vicious  wood.  As  they  advanced,  the 
cannonading  burst  into  a  double,  triple  fury, 
and  the  harsh  barking  of  machine  guns  be- 
gan —  and  never  once  stopped.  A  hundred 

[29] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


yards  from  the  trees  the  whistle  blew  again  to 
halt,  and  then  the  din  grew  unbearable,  a 
crashing  thunder  with  shells  bursting  here, 
there,  in  front,  behind,  in  continual  explosion. 
Swept  by  that  murderous  tornado,  they  had 
to  lie  down  and  wait.  And  wait.  And  wait. 
And  wait.  .  .  . 

A  scream  of  agony!  Coco  saw  on  his 
left  a  geyser  of  debris  —  clods  of  earth, 
stones,  dust,  and  smoke,  and  two  men  thrown 
bodily  upward.  Another  crash  —  nearer  — 
he  saw  men's  heads  and  torn-off  limbs  flying 
past  him.  Coco  himself,  when  he  rose  on  one 
knee  to  fire  (for  he  was  emptying  his  rifle 
madly  into  the  wood  now) ,  was  thrown  down 
again  and  again  by  the  concussion  of  the  air. 
He  saw  sudden  upheavals  appear  —  dirt, 
maimed  bodies,  rocks,  knapsacks,  rifles, 
thrown  every  way  —  and  a  hole  would  be 
left  big  enough  for  half  a  dozen  men  to  take 
refuge  in.  Once  he  himself  was  buried  up  to 

[30] 


WAR    THE     CREATOR 


his  waist  with  flying  dirt,  his  eyes  were  filled 
with  dust  and  he  could  hardly  breathe  —  the 
noxious  fumes  of  the  lyddite  choked  him. 
And  always  in  his  ears  the  incessant  crash, 
bang,  crash  of  the  devastating,  bursting  shells 
till  he  couldn't  think.  "Lie  down!  Lie 
down!  "  the  officers  shouted  continually,  but 
the  men  were  now  frenzied  with  the  slaugh- 
ter; they  were  on  their  knees,  on  their  feet, 
shooting  insanely  into  that  secret,  hellish 
wood,  screaming  curses. 

And,  all  the  time,  where  was  the  enemy? 
Nobody  knew.  Oh,  if  it  had  only  come  to  a 
reckless  charge  against  no  matter  what  force, 
it  would  at  least  have  been  a  chance  for  re- 
venge; they  would  have  gone  forward  like 
mad  dogs.  But  instead,  they  had  to  wait  — 
wait  —  wait  to  be  killed!  Coco  saw  his 
friends  wounded  one  by  one.  Coco  said: 
"  Each  man  when  he  was  hit  would  throw  his 
arms  up  over  his  head  —  always,  it  was  that 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


same    gesture  —  and    then    he    would    fall, 
bleeding." 

VII 

The  nerve-racking,  deafening  din  went  on 
and  on  without  a  respite.  Bracques  was  hit 
in  the  head  —  he  was  a  living,  breathing 
horror,  his  whole  jaw  gone  —  one  hand 
plucking  at  his  coat.  He  lay  grotesquely  un- 
comfortable on  his  back,  rolling  this  way  and 
rolling  that  way  on  his  knapsack  and  his  tin 
gamelle  and  the  dozen  other  accouterments  he 
couldn't  get  rid  of.  A  dozen  lads  he  had 
gone  to  school  with  in  Toulouse  were  scream- 
ing. One  called  for  his  mother  again  and 
again,  "  Maman!  Mamanf  Mamanf" 
Most  of  the  wounded  lay  still  in  their  blood, 
or  moaned  and  writhed  in  their  agony.  On 
Coco's  left,  he  said,  was  a  body  without  a 
head.  Coco,  he  confessed,  thought  more 
than  once  of  running.  What  was  the  use  of 

[3*} 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


staying  only  to  be  butchered?  They  could 
do  no  good  that  way.  But  still  the  regiment 
held  its  place;  yes,  but  the  regiment  was 
getting  strangely  thin.  It  could  not  last 
long. 

Coco  looked  round  for  Francois,  who 
should  have  been  beside  him.  There  he  was, 
close  by,  grinning.  He  called  out  something 
to  keep  up  Coco's  courage,  but  in  that  inferno 
Coco  couldn't  hear  a  word.  Then,  instantly, 
there  was  a  gigantic  explosion;  and  when 
Coco  rose  again,  he  looked  —  he  grew  numb. 
There  was  Francois  on  his  back  —  with  both 
legs  queerly  bent  in  an  impossible  position. 
With  a  sickening  wave  of  nausea  Coco  saw 
that  both  the  boy's  legs  were  shockingly 
crushed,  all  but  torn  off,  and  his  red  panta- 
loons were  soaking  in  blood.  Francois's  face 
was  horrible  now;  his  eyes  were  shining 
wildly.  Coco,  shrinking  with  horror,  man- 
aged to  crawl  toward  him.  .  .  . 

[33] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


In  the  hospital  at  Toulouse,  when  Coco 
told  me  this,  lying  in  his  cot,  he  shrank  con- 
vulsively into  himself  with  horror,  just  as  he 
must  have  recoiled,  I  fancy,  that  day.  He 
wouldn't  look  at  me.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  window.  Coco  told  me  then  that  Fran- 
gois's  legs  were  torn  "  quite  off  " —  he  was 
sure  of  it;  but  I  imagine  that,  in  his  agony  of 
horror,  Coco  must  have  been  mistaken,  or 
Francois  would  have  bled  to  death  very 
quickly.  Coco  says  he  lived  for  nearly  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour.  At  any  rate,  his  chum 
was  done  for,  and  suffering  torments  unspeak- 
able. 

"  He  just  looked  at  me  and  begged  me  to 
kill  him,"  said  Coco,  his  eyes  still  on  the  win- 
dow. "  He  said  " —  Coco  could  hardly 
speak  now — "  he  said  if  —  I  was  his  friend 
—  I'd  finish  him  —  so  he  wouldn't  suffer. 
There  was  such  a  terrible  noise  of  the  shells 
bursting  that  I  couldn't  quite  hear  at  first  — 

[34] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


I  had  to  hold  my  head  close  to  get  what  he 
said.  .  .  .  He  said  —  if  he  had  helped  me, 
ever  —  now  was  my  chance  to  be  his  friend 
.  .  .  and  put  him  out  of  his  misery.  .  .  ." 

We  were  silent  for  a  while.  I  was  look- 
ing at  him,  getting  up  my  courage  to  ask  a 
question.  Finally  I  dared.  I  simply  had  to 
ask  it: 

" Did  you  do  it,  Coco?" 

The  tears  poured  into  Coco's  eyes  now. 
He  shook  his  head  slowly,  without  a  word. 

"  Do  you  regret  not  having  —  done  what 
he  wanted,  Coco?  " 

Coco  said  simply,  "  I  don't  know.  / 
would  have  wanted  to  die  quickly.  Perhaps 
as  his  friend  I  ought  to  have  done  it.  But  I 
am  a  good  Catholic,  you  know,  m'sieur ;  and 
I  was  taught  that  it  is  a  sin  to  take  human 
life."  Quite  naturally  he  added:  "And 
yet  I  suppose  I  have  killed  a  lot  of  Germans." 
He  shook  his  head  wearily.  "  I  can't  under- 

[35] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


stand  it.     I  must  leave  it  for  the  church  to 
decide.     I  did  the  best  I  could.  .  .  ." 

VIII 

At  last  he  turned  and  looked  at  me  with  an 
expression  that  made  me  feel  guilty  enough 
at  having  asked.  "  But  that  isn't  all,  m'sieur ; 
I  haven't  told  you  the  worst  part  yet.  Last 
week  his  father  —  Frangois's  father  —  came 
here  to  see  me.  He  asked  me  if  I  knew  any- 
thing about  Francois  —  how  he  died.  What 
could  I  say?  Of  course  I  couldn't  tell  him. 
I  saw  him  fall  —  that's  all  I  said.  And  I 
was  glad,  then,  that  I  hadn't  done  it.  ... 
No,  I  can't  talk  about  it  any  more,  m'sieur. 
Don't  ask  me  to,  please  1  " 


For  two  hours  the  Twentieth  Regiment  en- 
dured the  storm  of  shell.     To  advance  a 

[36] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


regiment  of  infantry  like  that  without  artil- 
lery support  was  surely  an  incredible  piece  of 
criminal  stupidity.  Some  one  had  blundered. 
But  there  were  many  blunders  in  those  early 
days  of  the  campaign,  and  the  truth  hasn't 
all  come  out  even  yet. 

One  interesting  fact,  however,  did  come 
out;  although  Coco  didn't  hear  of  it  for  sev- 
eral days.  It  was  a  piece  of  sublime  senti- 
mentality impossible  in  any  other  than  a 
French  army;  quite  consistent  with  the  char- 
acter of  the  romantic,  high-spirited  colonel 
who  had  orated  so  grandiloquently  at  the 
Toulouse  railway  station.  The  night  before 
the  battle  of  Bertrix,  the  colonel  had  done  a 
strange  thing;  he  had,  in  the  presence  of  his 
staff,  burned  the  regimental  colors.  The 
enemy  was  in  countless  force  against  him. 
His  Gallic  sense  of  honor,  when  he  was  or- 
dered to  attack  an  impregnable  position,  told 
him  that  there  was  only  one  thing  to  do.  He 

[37] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


must  go  forward  with  his  men,  and  die  —  but 
the  flag  must  not  be  captured. 

And  so,  go  forward  and  die  he  did,  that 
gallant  old  man.  As  Coco  lay,  under  that 
August  sun,  in  the  rain  of  bursting  shells,  he 
heard  a  bugle  ring  out  on  the  left  flank. 
Four  companies  rose  to  their  feet  and  charged 
that  murderous  wood.  At  their  head  the 
colonel  ran,  waving  his  sword  —  yes,  just  like 
the  battle  pictures,  Coco  swears  —  ran  for  a 
few  hundred  yards  toward  his  inevitable 
death,  and  dropped  —  with  his  honor  unsul- 
lied. Behind  him  his  men  dropped,  too,  in 
appalling  numbers  —  dropped  singly  and  in 
bunches  till  they  faltered,  stopped,  then  fell 
back. 

At  this,  the  whistles  blew  at  last  for  the 
general  retreat. 

It  was  high  time ;  for,  at  the  sight  of  this 
destruction  all  over  the  field,  men  had  al- 
ready begun  to  jump  up  and  run  toward  the 

[38] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


rear.  Now  they  all  ran  —  everybody  ran  — 
with  the  shells  and  shrapnel  chasing  them. 
They  threw  away  their  knapsacks,  they  threw 
away  their  guns,  they  ran  screaming  and  cry- 
ing like  children. 

Coco  threw  away  his  knapsack  and 
musette,  too,  but  kept  his  rifle  as  he  ran,  mak- 
ing for  a  shelter  in  the  woods  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road.  "  You've  no  idea  how 
much  worse  they  were,  those  shells;  when  I 
had  turned  my  back  I  expected  to  be  hit  every 
moment.  My  spine  fairly  cringed."  The 
remnants  of  the  colonel's  four  companies 
were  pulled  together  and  attempted  to  cover 
the  retreat.  But  the  regiment  had  stam- 
peded. The  officers  shouted  and  swore,  they 
struck  men  with  their  swords,  some  were  even 
shot,  but  nothing  could  stop  the  rout. 


[39] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


X 

It  was  more  than  a  rout,  it  was  a  panic. 
Into  the  wood  the  shells  followed  them  — 
there  seemed  to  be  no  escape.  Every  mo- 
ment they  expected  to  see  the  uhlans  charging 
them  down.  Dodging  this  way,  that  way, 
deafened,  shouting  over  here  —  over  there 
—  the  shells  dropping  to  right,  to  left,  as  if 
from  the  clouds,  the  men,  breathless,  ex- 
hausted, poured  out  upon  a  road,  to  stagger 
back  almost  run  over  by  a  clattering  battery 
of  guns  galloping,  too  late,  galloping  toward 
the  firing  line.  They  stopped  to  pant,  and 
rest;  and  then  ran  on. 

In  half  an  hour  they  were  out  of  the  range 
of  the  German  artillery,  and  they  halted  ex- 
hausted, shamefaced,  sick  with  terror  and 
despair.  The  officers,  too  heartbroken  even 
to  swear  at  them,  reformed  their  men  with 
difficulty,  and,  herding  them  like  frightened 

[40] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


sheep,  fell  back  in  something  like  order  till 
they  came  upon  a  line  of  trenches  that  had 
been  occupied  by  the  Germans. 

The  pits  were  filled  instantly,  and  the  men 
were  beginning  to  regain  their  calmness  and 
courage,  when  from  a  near-by  hill  the  terri- 
fying cannonade  recommenced.  The  butch- 
ery recommenced  —  the  explosions,  and  the 
screams. 

Out  of  the  trenches  came  all  that  were  left 
alive,  and  there  was  no  stopping  the  army 
now,  till,  hurrying  all  night  long  without  food 
and  rest,  demoralized,  it  found  its  way  back 
to  Mouzon.  Here  the  Seventeenth  Corps 
was  pulled  together  for  a  hasty  review.  The 
roll  call  showed  that  in  Coco's  regiment  there 
were  1,443  dead,  wounded,  or  missing  — 
fully  one-third  of  its  strength  gone. 

The  men  were  in  a  fury  of  disappointment 
and  rage  against  the  generals  who  had  been 
responsible  for  the  massacre.  Where  was 

[41] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


the  artillery?  Where  were  the  stretcher 
bearers?  Where  were  the  ambulances  and 
surgeons?  Not  one  did  Coco  see  during  the 
battle,  after  the  battle  —  nor  even  during 
that  whole  terrible  retreat. 

And  it  wasn't  at  Mouzon  alone  that  there 
was  wondering,  complaining,  raging  at  the 
failure  of  the  campaign.  On  the  left  wing 
the  British  expeditionary  force,  hot  with  rage 
at  not  being  supported  by  General  Percin, 
was  falling  back  from  defeat  at  Mons  to  pur- 
suit at  Bavay  —  and  it  was  not  yet  out  of 
danger.  On  the  right,  the  Fifteenth  Corps 
(fat  cowards  of  the  Midi)  had  turned  tail 
and  run  in  Lorraine.  Oh,  there  was  some- 
thing rotten  somewhere.  Paris  was  wild. 
The  Government  was  shuffled,  and  the  Presi- 
dent dealt  out  a  new  hand  —  his  high  trump 
was  Millerand,  new  Minister  of  War,  but  his 
right  bower  was  Joffre,  commander  in  chief, 
of  whom  all  the  world  was  soon  to  hear.  To 

£4»] 


WAR    THE     CREATOR 


Coco  at  Mouzon,  the  news  came  that  the 
Fourth  Army  was  to  be  commanded  by  Gen- 
eral de  Langle  de  Carry.  Little  did  Coco 
care  who  commanded  it.  Much  more  impor- 
tant than  that  was  that  he  would  get  one 
night's  good  sleep  on  a  sack  of  straw. 

By  this  time  the  boy  had  begun  to  realize 
what  war  meant.  That  night  he  wrote  to  his 
aunt:  "  I  have  received  my  baptism  of  fire, 
but  I  am  unhurt.  It  was  terrible.  Don't  be 
frightened,  and  be  sure  and  write  to  my 
mother  that  you  have  had  good  news  from 
me."  He  signed  the  post  card  for  the  first 
time  "Georges."  Coco  had  begun  to  be  a 
man. 

If  it  has  ever  been  your  lot  to  go  without 
having  your  clothes  off  for  two  weeks  —  to 
march  through  dust  and  mud  in  them,  sleep  in 
them,  fight  in  them,  run  in  them  —  then  you'll 
understand  how  Georges  Cucurou  longed  for 
a  swim  in  the  river  Meuse  —  to  bathe  his 

[43] 


WAR    THE     CREATOR 


poor,  aching  blistered  feet.  But  no  —  up 
and  out  again  at  six  o'clock  next  morning! 
Off  on  the  road  toward  Belgium  again.  A 
counter-attack.  All  day  and  all  night  they 
marched. 

XI 

There  was  no  singing,  this  time.  The 
Twentieth  was  smarting  with  the  shame  of  its 
defeat;  it  was  savage  for  revenge;  but,  held 
in  reserve  behind  the  battle  line,  it  had  to  wait 
listening  to  the  booming  cannon  and  the 
crackle  of  machine  guns  for  an  impatient 
hour  —  then  they  were  ordered  back  to 
Mouzon. 

At  Mouzon,  news  of  a  fresh  defeat  awaited 
them.  The  town  was  now  distraught, 
terror-stricken  by  the  ever-nearing,  ever-in- 
creasing thunder  of  the  German  cannonade. 
When  Georges  arrived  at  midnight,  almost 
every  house  was  lighted.  The  frenzied  in- 

[44] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


habitants  were  packing  up  or  hiding  their  be- 
longings, ready  to  fly.  The  "  Bosches  "  were 
coming  I 

At  dawn,  Georges,  sleeping  by  the  road- 
side, was  awakened  to  see  a  pathetic  proces- 
sion of  refugees  hurrying  away  to  safety. 
Pathetic?  It  was  tragic,  comic,  grotesque, 
sublime!  Everyone  was  dressed  in  his  best 
clothes;  everyone  carried  bundles,  carried 
hens,  carried  trunks,  carried  the  Lord  knows 
what  —  and  the  memories  of  1870  to  boot! 
Wagon  after  wagon  passed,  piled  high  with 
furniture,  bags,  boxes,  baskets,  and  provi- 
sions, with  women  and  children  atop,  and 
cows  tied  on  behind.  Whole  families  — 
three  generations  —  trudged  on  foot,  men 
and  women  and  children,  children,  children, 
children,  and  weeping  old  grandmothers 
trundled  along  in  wheelbarrows. 


[45] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


XII 

It  was  a  bitter  sight  for  Georges,  burning 
to  defend  his  country.  What  was  the  French 
army  good  for,  anyway,  if  it  couldn't  protect 
this  pretty,  innocent  little  town,  so  charm- 
ingly scattered  over  the  wooded  heights  of 
the  Meuse?  But  Mouzon  was  doomed. 
Already  the  sappers  with  wires  and  sticks  of 
melinite  were  blowing  up  the  picturesque  old 
stone  bridge. 

All  next  day  Georges's  regiment,  hidden  in 
the  woods,  watched  the  shelling  of  the  town; 
all  next  night,  hungry,  soaked  with  rain,  en- 
raged, they  saw  it  burn,  house  by  house,  till 
at  last  the  flames  licked  up  the  belfry  of  the 
church.  That  was  the  way  they  defended 
Mouzon. 

Another  day;  another  night  of  drenching 
rain  in  those  wretched  sopping  woods,  while 
the  German  guns  boomed  all  about  them. 

[46] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


Georges  and  two  other  boys  succeeded  in 
building  a  dirty  little  shelter  of  branches 
covered  with  wet  straw,  and  they  crawled  un- 
derneath. Water-soaked,  the  clumsy  thing 
collapsed  on  top  of  them  in  the  middle  of  the 
night ;  but,  heavy  with  soldiers'  sleep,  it  took 
more  than  that  to  wake  them.  In  the  morn- 
ing, however,  a  shell  bursting  only  a  few 
yards  away  did  succeed  in  bringing  them 
stumbling  out  from  under  the  soggy  mass  — 
to  find  to  their  amazement  that  their  regi- 
ment had  already  departed ! 

XIII 

The  shells  began  to  fall  thicker  and  faster ; 
the  Germans  were  indubitably  near  at  hand. 
But  where  the  devil  was  the  regiment? 
There  was  no  knowing,  except  that  it  was 
pretty  sure  to  be  getting  away  from  those 
harrying  shells.  Chilled,  the  boys  ran 

[47] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


through  the  dripping  woods  till  they  came  to 
a  clearing.  Here,  looking  down,  they  saw 
the  Germans  fording  the  Meuse !  But  not 
without  trouble;  a  French  battery  had  got 
their  range,  and  was  playing  red  havoc  with 
them,  slinging  shell  after  shell  <  >f  well-aimed 
shrapnel.  By  dozens  they  me!  ted  away  un- 
der the  fire,  and  the  water  w?s  full  of  bob- 
bing corpses  drifting  downstream. 

"  We  just  burst  out  laughing,"  said 
Georges.  "  We  couldn't  help  it.  Not  that 
it  was  so  funny  to  see  men  killed  like  that  by 
the  hundreds,  but,  after  all  we  had  gone 
through — after  the  ghastly  way  we  had 
been  butchered  at  Bertrix,  it  really  did  me 
good  to  see  those  '  Bosches '  suffering  them- 
selves at  last!  " 

He  didn't  laugh  long.  With  the  German 
reckless  sacrifice  of  life,  column  after  column 
was  thrown  into  the  river,  until  more  and 
more  got  across.  It  was  time  for  the  boys 

[48] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


to  be  moving  now,  and  they  set  out  toward 
the  westward,  tramped  all  day,  eating  noth- 
ing but  the  raw  beets  they  dug  up  in  the  fields, 
and  finally  found  the  Seventeenth  Corps  at 
Raucourt. 

They  were  just  in  time  to  join  their  regi- 
ment as  it  was  ordered  forward  seven  more 
miles  for  a  new  engagement.  There,  pro- 
tected by  the  French  batteries,  they 
bivouacked.  Glad  enough  was  Georges  of  a 
chance  to  sleep.  No  fear  of  the  coming  bat- 
tle could  keep  him  awake  by  this  time. 

At  dawn,  while  the  vigilant  searchlights 
were  still  playing  across  the  opposite  hill- 
side, the  French  guns  started  firing,  and, 
without  breakfast,  Georges's  battalion  was 
ordered  forward.  In  half  an  hour  the  enemy 
was  discovered  half  a  mile  away.  In  the 
valley  between  opposite  hills  the  shells  were 
screeching  now  over  their  heads  —  from  the 
French  "  75's  "  the  sound  of  the  whizzing 

[49] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


projectiles  came  high  and  dry  like  buzz  saws 

—  they  burst  with  the   awful  battering  of 
near-by  thunder.     The  German  "  marmites  " 
snorted  through  the  air,  and  exploded  with 
a  deeper,  more  terrible  crash.     The   regi- 
ment halted,  and  was  deployed  in  four  ranks 

—  the  first  two  lying  on  the  ground,  the  third 
and  fourth  kneeling. 

The  men  were  mostly  quite  cool,  but 
Georges  confessed  that  he  himself  had  hard 
work  controlling  his  nerves  while  he  waited 
for  that  attack.  In  ten  minutes  the  enemy 
appeared  from  behind  rising  ground  and 
came  on  —  a  long,  gray-black  line  of  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  men,  a  thick  line, 
swarming,  multitudinous,  nearer  and  nearer. 

"  Load  I  "  coolly  commanded  the  cap- 
tains; "500  meters.  Ready,  now  —  fire!" 
Their  salvo  rang  out.  The  heavy  rows  of 
Germans  seemed  to  hesitate  for  a  moment; 
but  no,  they  were  only  stopping  to  fire. 

[50] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


There  came  a  sudden  whistling  in  the  air  all 
about  and  the  bullets  flew — "  for  a  terribly 
long  minute,"  as  Georges  described  it  —  then 
the  enemy  came  on  again,  and  kept  on  com- 
ing, in  a  broad,  thick  wave,  company  after 
company.  And  only  a  battalion  of  four 
companies  to  resist  them!  Georges  fired 
without  aiming.  What  was  the  use  of  aim- 
ing at  that  horde  of  men  ?  The  boys  jumped 
to  their  feet,  fired  again  and  again,  and  then, 
as  their  comrades  dropped  about  them  every- 
where, they  began  to  retreat,  some  picking 
up  the  wounded  as  they  went.  At  first  they 
withdrew  in  order,  turning  back  to  fire  an- 
other volley;  but  when  the  Germans  fixed 
their  bayonets  and  came  at  them  on  the 
double-quick,  the  French  broke,  and  ran  for 
it,  helter-skelter,  this  way  and  that,  in  a  sec- 
ond rout,  even  worse  than  the  first. 

Georges  ran  with  the  rest,  and  the  shrap- 
nel followed  him,  killing  men  on  either  hand, 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


in  front,  behind.  Then,  over  the  rise,  came 
the  uhlans,  yelling,  galloping  in  to  cut  them 
up.  Looking  back,  Georges  saw  the  cavalry 
sabering  and  lancing,  and  he  ran  like  a  deer 
for  his  life,  ran  up  the  hillside,  ran  into  the 
woods.  He  ran  for  at  least  a  mile  with  the 
thunder  of  the  cannon  still  in  his  ears. 
When,  finally,  he  stopped  to  take  breath,  it 
was  only  a  fragment  of  his  company  that  he 
found  near  him  —  some  ten  or  eleven  men, 
among  them  a  sergeant.  Where  were  the 
others?  Nobody  knew.  The  regiment,  de- 
moralized, had  split  up  into  numberless  terri- 
fied detachments,  and  wandered  all  over  the 
countryside.  Such  was  the  inglorious  bat- 
tle of  Raucourt.  Of  the  week  following 
Georges  could  give  no  consecutive  account. 
He  remembers  only  that  he  and  the  others 
tramped  and  tramped  for  miles  inquiring  of 
peasants,  gendarmes,  of  the  stragglers, 
everyone,  everywhere,  the  whereabouts  of 

[52] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


the  Twentieth  Regiment.  They  climbed 
over  hills,  they  rested  in  little  deserted  vil- 
lages where  every  house  was  gutted  of  furni- 
ture, doors  open,  rooms  littered,  and  here 
and  there  a  starved  cat  or  two,  lean  and  wild. 
The  roads  were  alive  with  refugees,  French 
and  Belgian,  all  plodding  mournfully  toward 
the  south,  dreary  processions  of  wagons  and 
cattle  and  weeping  women,  children,  and 
stony-eyed,  sulky  men.  No,  nobody  had  seen 
the  Twentieth  Regiment. 

They  tramped  from  Villers  to  Malmy, 
and,  apparently  (Georges  isn't  quite  sure 
where  they  did  go),  from  Malmy  to  Maire. 
At  Le  Vivier,  or  perhaps  it  was  Mont  Dieu, 
they  found  an  infantry  regiment,  but  it  was 
not  their  own.  The  Twentieth  should  be 
down  Vouziers  way,  said  the  officers.  So 
they  trudged  on. 

More  and  more  stray  men  had  joined 
Georges's  party.  Few  of  them  had  knap- 

[53] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


sacks,  some  didn't  even  have  guns.  Hats  of 
all  kinds;  costumes  —  promiscuous  but  all 
disheveled.  They  were,  by  this  time,  a 
villainously  whiskered  lot  —  ragged,  dirty, 
weary,  famished,  sullen,  desperate  —  with- 
out discipline,  without  leaders.  Occasionally, 
in  some  ransacked  village  they  found  stale 
bread  or  vegetables  that  they  cooked  in  the 
woods;  whatever  else  they  ate  was  begged 
from  the  few  frightened  peasants  that  still 
remained  on  their  farms. 

There  was  one  village,  however,  that 
Georges  did  remember,  and  that  was  Les 
Alleux.  There  he  slept  in  an  actual  bed. 
How  Les  Alleux  happened  to  be  abandoned 
with  all  its  houses  undisturbed  —  with  the 
clocks  still  going  and  the  furniture  in  place, 
even  the  beds  made  up  —  Georges  doesn't 
know.  Some  sudden  alarm  had  evidently 
caused  the  inhabitants  to  fly  at  a  moment's 
notice.  What  mainly  interested  him  was 

[54] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


that  they  had  left  their  barnyards  full  of 
poultry. 

Les  Alleux  was  almost  gay.  There  were 
some  hundred  soldiers  collected  there,  now; 
all  tatterdemalion  stragglers  from  the  rout, 
making  the  most  of  their  unexpected  good 
luck.  There  was  almost  everything  to  eat 
except  bread.  Georges  fairly  gorged  him- 
self on  hot  roast  chicken  and  cheese,  made 
merry  with  the  rabble  of  soldiery,  sang, 
smoked,  and  then  slept  for  twelve  solid 
hours,  with  his  boots  off  on  a  delectable 
feather  bed  and  sheets.  And,  for  once, 
without  the  din  of  cannon  in  his  ears. 

This,  however,  was  hardly  the  way  to  save 
his  country.  Georges's  conscience  and  the 
booming  of  German  guns  awoke  him  to  his 
duty  next  morning.  The  mob  scattered,  flee- 
ing south  in  a  hurry.  Georges's  party,  he 
found  when  they  started,  had  grown  smaller. 
"  I  don't  know  whether  or  not  I  ought  to 

[55] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


mention  this  detail,"  he  told  me,  "  but  at 
least  it  will  show  that  I  wasn't  quite  so  bad  as 
the  rest.  But  I  think  some  of  the  boys  found 
citizens'  clothes  in  the  houses  there  at  Les 
Alleux,  and  got  away  in  them.  At  any  rate, 
they  didn't  come  along  with  us." 

His  Odyssey  ended  at  a  village  called 
Pauvres  on  the  highroad  between  Rethel  and 
Vouziers.  Here  they  found  what  was  left 
of  the  Twentieth  Regiment,  and  Georges  was 
welcomed  like  one  from  the  dead.  All  re- 
ceived new  rifles  and  accouterments,  and  the 
regiment  was  reorganized.  Of  its  three  bat- 
talions there  remained  hardly  enough  to  form 
two  —  a  third  was  made  up  of  waifs  and 
strays  from  other  divisions. 

XIV 

The  Twentieth  Regiment  now  contained  a 
sad  and  sorry  lot  of  men,  weary,  discouraged, 
[56] 


shamefaced,  and  sullen  at  their  double  de- 
feat. But  when  they  heard  that  the  army 
was  to  retreat  still  further,  and  abandon  all 
this  rich,  flourishing  northern  country  to  the 
invaders  without  a  blow  —  why,  it  was  in- 
credible I  What  was  the  matter  ?  Where 
were  their  reinforcements?  Only  fifteen 
days  ago  they  had  been  marching  enthusi- 
astically up  through  the  lovely  forest  of  Ar- 
gonne.  Now  they  were  going  to  retreat  into 
Champagne.  But  they  were  too  busy  with 
preparations  to  spend  much  time  sulking. 
The  officers  declared  that  they  would  lead 
their  men  to  victory  yet.  So  the  retreat  com- 
menced to  the  booming  accompaniment  of 
the  threatening  German  artillery. 

Little  did  Georges  know  of  cool  old  Gen- 
eral Joffre  and  his  desperate  plans.  Little 
did  he  imagine  that  the  endless  falling  back, 
falling  back,  falling  back  through  Champagne 
was  to  go  down  into  history  as  a  masterpiece 

[57] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


of  Fabian  strategy.  All  he  understood  of 
that  campaign  was  —  day  after  day  of  re- 
treating along  the  hard  white  roads,  then  into 
the  fields  and  digging  trenches;  night  after 
night  standing  ready  in  those  clayey  shoulder- 
deep  holes,  waiting  for  an  attack,  while  the 
first  line  of  the  rear  guard  fought  constantly 
with  the  enemy.  So  they  did  their  best  to 
hold  back  the  flood  of  invaders.  So  they 
struggled  with  the  booming  cannon  ever  fol- 
lowing them.  It  was  hard,  sour  work! 
The  men,  exhausted  with  the  digging  and  the 
marching  and  the  watching,  with  their  few 
hours'  sleep  constantly  interrupted  by  alarms, 
trudged  hopelessly  southward,  too  glum  to 
talk.  Constantly  the  officers  encouraged 
them  — "  Just  to  that  hill  there,  men !  Come 
on !  "  but  it  took  more  than  their  optimism 
to  restore  the  courage  of  the  troops.  Man 
after  man  stopped,  absolutely  incapable  of 
going  further,  and  slumped  down  by  the  side 

[58] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


of  the  road  only  to  be  forced  on,  kicked  on 
again  by  the  corps  of  gendarmes  which  fol- 
lowed the  march.  If  the  column  halted  for 
a  minute,  half  the  men  fell  instantly  asleep  as 
they  stood. 

The  minute  the  trenches  were  dug  they  had 
to  prepare  to  receive  the  enemy.  Mighty 
little  food  these  days,  and  no  fresh  meat. 
Even  water  was  scarce,  as  the  men  were  for- 
bidden to  drink  of  springs  till  they  had  been 
inspected.  Georges's  regiment  was,  for  the 
most  part  of  the  retreat,  held  in  the  second 
line  of  the  rear  guard,  and  he  was,  there- 
fore, in  but  one  actual  engagement.  In  the 
general  campaign  it  was  called,  probably, 
only  "  a  sharp  skirmish."  But,  to  Georges, 
it  was  one  of  those  crises  when  life  says: 
"  Come !  Move  up  a  notch !  " 

"  I  was  on  sentry  duty  at  the  end  of  the 
trench  where  the  company  was  sleeping," 
said  Georges.  "  On  Tuesday,  the  2d  of 

[59] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


September  it  was,  near  Souain.  I  knew 
everyone's  life  depended  on  me,  and  it  was 
a  terrible  strain.  You  know  the  enemy  was 
always  right  on  our  heels,  night  and  day. 
M'sieu,  I  was  just  all  eyes,  searching  every- 
where through  the  dark.  It  must  have  been 
about  two  in  the  morning,  when  I  thought  I 
saw  something  moving  on  the  opposite  hill- 
side. At  first  I  wasn't  quite  sure.  I  had  to 
pull  my  eyes  away  deliberately,  and  rest 
them  on  something  else  —  you  know  how 
your  eyes  get  when  you  stare  too  hard  and 
too  long;  but  then,  when  I  looked  again 
quickly,  I  was  sure.  Yes,  the  *  Bosches ' 
were  coming !  It  was  horrible.  I  saw  them 
creeping  from  one  bush  to  another  like 
snakes. 

"  I  kicked  the  sergeant  who  was  snoring 
at  my  feet  and  pointed.  Instantly  all  our 
men  were  quietly  awakened.  My  lieutenant 
told  me  to  stay  where  I  was  and  pretend  not 

[60] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


to  see  anything;  but  to  choose  my  man  and 
be  ready  to  fire.  Yes,  monsieur;  it  was  a 
ticklish  job ;  I  felt  rather  queer,  I  confess.  I 
knew  that  I  would  be  the  very  first  one  to  be 
shot  at.  That  was  about  the  longest  fifteen 
minutes  I  ever  spent. 

"  Well,  we  let  them  crawl  up,  crawl  up,  to 
within  a  hundred  meters  and  then  just  as 
they  all  jumped  to  their  feet,  the  lieutenant 
shouted :  *  Fire  at  will ! '  I  was  ready  for 
the  foremost  man,  and  I  let  him  have  it  right 
through  the  forehead.  Here  is  his  helmet, 
monsieur ;  see  that  hole  ?  " 

In  the  hospital  at  Toulouse,  while  I  listened 
to  his  story,  he  held  up  a  black  helmet, 
trimmed  with  brass  — r  with  a  spiked  top.  It 
had  never  left  him  since  that  day. 

Yes,  I  saw  that  hole  —  the  hole  where  he 
had  killed  his  man.  But,  when  I  saw  him 
look  at  that  German  helmet,  there  was  an  ex- 
pression on  his  face  that  baffled  me.  I 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


didn't  know  what  it  meant,  but  I  knew  that 
Coco  wasn't  there  —  Coco,  with  the  lead 
pencil!  No,  this  was  a  new  person  now  on 
that  bed  in  front  of  me.  It  was  Georges 
Cucurou  —  and  he  would  never  be  a  boy 
again ! 

XV 

During  that  terrible  retreat,  Georges,  had 
been  a  part  of  a  working,  fighting  machine, 
tried  to  his  utmost  in  mind  and  body.  He 
had  been  hammered,  hammered  into  shape. 
Hunger  and  fatigue  had  hardened  him. 
Every  day  his  nerves  had  been  getting  more 
tough  and  strong.  If  his  duty  consisted  of 
retreating,  digging,  sleeping  three  or  four 
hours  a  day,  going  without  meat  and  often 
without  water  or  wine,  he  could  do  it. 

On  a  post  card,  scrawled  in  haste  from 
somewhere  (no  postmark,  no  date,  no  indica- 

[62] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


tion   of   any  locality   being  permitted) ,   he 
wrote  to  his  aunt : 

DEAR  AUNT:  //  we  keep  on  retreating 
like  this,  we  may  perhaps  get  to  Paris.  I 
should  be  very  glad  to  see  you,  of  course,  but 
I  hope  not.  There  must  soon  be  an  end  of 
all  this  digging  and  digging,  and  victory  will 
be  ours.  I  am  afraid  you  wouldn't  recog- 
nize your  Georges. 

Indeed,  she  wouldn't  have  recognized  him, 
but,  not  only  because  for  weeks  he  had  the 
dirt  caked  in  his  hands  and  hair  and  ears,  and 
his  uniform  hung  on  him  in  rags,  but  partly 
too  because  already  in  his  face  there  was  be- 
ginning to  show  something  more  unlike  the 
old  Coco  we  had  known  than  all  that  change 
in  his  outward  self  could  make  him.  He 
had  learned  patience,  perseverance,  caution, 
confidence  in  his  officers,  and  faith  in  the  ulti- 

[63] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


mate  victory.  He  was  uplifted  by  that  great 
wave  of  high  idealism  that  was  transforming 
France. 

Why  that  steady  retreat,  further  and  fur- 
ther south?  Georges  and  Georges's  com- 
pany, now  that  they  were  tempered  by  expe- 
rience, now  that  they  were  raging  to  attack, 
couldn't  understand.  But  still  they  retreated 
and  retreated.  Back  to  Suippes  they  came. 

It  was  a  queer  entrance  that  regiment  made 
into  Suippes.  On  the  road,  they  had  over- 
taken a  troop  of  refugees  who,  utterly  ex- 
hausted, could  travel  no  further.  The  peas- 
ants had  a  panic  of  alarm  at  sight  of  the  col- 
umn, thinking  that  the  Germans  were  already 
upon  them.  It  was  hard  work  reassur- 
ing them;  and  it  ended  in  a  comedy,  the 
soldiers  taking  a  hand  at  the  migration.  Old 
women  were  mounted  in  the  handcarts  they 
had  been  trying  to  pull  and  were  given  a  ride 
into  town.  Soldiers  unharnessed  the  don- 

[64] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


keys  and  put  the  children  on  their  backs. 
They  pushed  at  the  wagons,  they  helped  along 
the  graybeards,  they  carried  babies  in  their 
arms;  Georges,  I  think,  must  have  begun  to 
realize  that  he  had  grown  up  when  he,  a  vet- 
eran now,  marched  into  Suippes,  carrying  a 
big  basket  for  a  lad  of  fifteen  who  looked  up 
to  his  soldier  protector  admiringly,  and  called 
him  "  M'sieu." 

No  Frenchman  will  ever  forget  that  dread- 
ful first  week  of  September,  1914.  Every 
day  the  Germans  grew  nearer  Paris,  every 
day  their  cowardly  aeroplanes  sailed  over  the 
capital  and  dropped  their  futile  threats. 
What  was  the  French  army  doing?  We 
hoped  they  were  merely  luring  the  enemy  to- 
ward the  forts  of  Paris  where  the  big  guns 
could  smash  them.  But  could  the  army  hold 
the  enemy  back,  even  with  that  assistance? 
Paris  was  all  nervous  apprehension.  Then 
that  astounding  news  • —  the  German  army, 

[65] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


almost  within  striking  distance,  was  swerving 
to  the  southeast !  What  did  it  mean? 

To  Georges  Cucurou,  retreating  before 
those  hammering,  hammering  guns,  that  quick 
change  in  direction  was  quite  as  mysterious. 
From  Suippes  his  regiment,  without  stopping 
to  entrench  now,  marching  day  and  night,  in- 
stead of  keeping  on  toward  Paris,  swung 
sharply  to  the  east,  along  the  road  to  Ste. 
Menehould.  Then,  as  suddenly,  they  turned 
back  again  into  Chalons. 

Heavy  cannonading  was  coming  now  from 
almost  every  direction  except  the  south. 
Every  man  was  tense  with  excitement  — 
battle  was  in  the  air  —  surely  something  was 
going  to  happen,  must  happen !  But  further 
and  further  south  they  marched;  and  along 
the  roads,  now,  the  automobiles  were  flying 
like  mad,  night  and  day,  some  with  officers, 
some  flying  the  Red  Cross  flag.  Over  their 
heads  there  were  French  aeroplanes,  every 
[66] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


day  the  sky  was  never  quite  free  of  them. 
Georges  caught  his  first  sight  of  a  British 
soldier  —  a  khaki-clad  dispatch  rider  on  a 
motorcycle  flying  past,  and  another.  They 
passed  hundreds  of  Paris  autobusses  at  the 
Division  Headquarters,  a  long,  long  line  that 
filled  the  village  street  at  Sompuis,  and  ambu- 
lances, and  cycle  companies,  and  farriers' 
wagons,  the  portable  forges  glowing  red  in 
the  evening  darkness.  Georges  recognized 
the  Senegalese  spahis  in  red  flowing  robes,  he 
saw  the  Turcos  from  Morocco  —  big  chil- 
dren they  were,  grinning  black  faces  with 
shiny  white  teeth.  A  wagon  flew  past,  with 
men  inside  feeding  out  telephone  wire,  hook- 
ing it  with  long  poles  into  the  ditch,  or  over 
bushes,  out  of  the  way,  as  they  galloped  on. 
Best  of  all,  he  began  to  get  fresh  meat  for 
dinner,  from  the  portable  kitchens  that  hur- 
ried from  company  to  company  along  the 
road.  But  always,  never  stopping,  night  or 

[67] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


day,  more  exciting  than  all  the  rest,  never 
forgotten,  no  matter  what  happened,  in  the 
north,  growing  ever  nearer  —  the  steady 
rumbling  thunder  of  the  German  guns. 

XVI 

The  camp  of  Mailly  was  a  busy  place. 
At  the  aeroplane  sheds  the  biplanes  and 
Bleriots  were  constantly  going  and  coming, 
circling  in  the  air,  or  making  ready  in  long 
rows  upon  the  level  field.  The  vast  plain 
was  filled  with  troops  of  all  sorts  in  seemingly 
inextricable  confusion:  chasseurs,  on  horse- 
back, in  pale  blue  tunics,  the  Alpine  chasseurs, 
with  drooping  blue  berets  on  their  heads,  and 
leggings;  cuirassiers  with  their  breastplates 
and  long  horsehair  plumes,  and  zouaves  with 
embroidered  jackets  and  baggy  red  trousers. 
The  Twentieth  Regiment,  tattered  and  tired, 
with  many  heads  bandaged  and  many  with 
[68] 


feet  through  their  shoes,  dusty,  hollow-eyed, 
marched  past,  not  yet  too  despairing,  as 
fresh  troops  greeted  them,  to  cry  in  answer 
"  Five  la  France! "  They  were  not  boys 
now,  they  were  soldiers  tempered  in  the 
crucible  of  war.  And  among  them  marched 
Georges  Cucurou,  with  a  Prussian  helmet  tied 
to  his  knapsack  with  a  shoestring  —  a  Prus- 
sian helmet  with  a  hole  through  its  brass 
front ! 

Already  rumors  were  flying  fast  from 
column  to  column.  Why  this  concentration 
of  troops?  Why  this  wide  circle  swung 
around  the  camp  of  Mailly?  Mon  Dieu! 
could  it  be  that  they  were  to  retreat  no 
longer?  That,  at  last,  they  were  to  make  a 
stand?  A  hope  like  a  gaining  fire  sprang 
up  and  swept  from  man  to  man. 

It  was  early  in  the  morning  of  Sunday, 
September  6,  that  on  the  heights  south  of 
Mailly  the  regiment  was  assembled  for  re- 

[69] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


view.  To  the  accompaniment  of  an  inces- 
sant, raging  bombardment  from  the  German 
cannon,  the  colonel  read  aloud  this  message 
from  General  Joffre,  Commander  in  Chief 
of  the  Allied  Forces: 

Children  of  France,  the  hour  of  the  great 
battle  has  arrived!  Lift  up  your  hearts! 
If  you  wish  your  Country  everlasting  honor, 
let  .every  man  die  at  his  post,  if  necessary, 
rather  than  surrender  another  inch  of  ground, 
and  the  victory  will  be  ours. 

It  was  not  Gallic  sentimentality  now.  It 
was  the  voice  of  a  leader  who  wasted  no 
words. 

There  was  a  shout  of  rejoicing — "Vive 
la  France!"  Emotion  swept  the  ranks  and 
men  wept  without  shame.  The  tremendous 
suggestion  put  into  those  thousands  of  minds 
had  a  terrible  potency.  Georges  said  that 

[70] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


morning  he  felt  as  if  he  were  intoxicated;  he 
grew  suddenly  like  a  giant.  It  seemed  as  if 
nothing  on  earth  could  possibly  resist  them, 
now. 

Bread  and  biscuits  were  handed  out  and 
the  Twentieth  Regiment  was  hurried  to  a 
wood  two  miles  away.  Already  they  had  be- 
gun to  move  northward.  But  again  it  was 
their  fate  to  be  held  in  reserve,  while  the 
brunt  of  the  attack  was  given  to  other 
troops.  The  Twentieth  was  held  in  the 
woods  all  day,  all  night,  while  the  shells 
rained  in  from  every  direction.  Most  fell 
in  front  or  behind,  but  occasionally  a  "  mar- 
mite  "  would  hit  the  column  with  devastating 
fury,  and  send  its  mutilated  victims  flying. 
There  was  nothing  for  it,  however,  but  to 
stay  and  stay  on,  till  the  last  man  was  killed 
if  need  were.  Whatever  happened,  the  Ger- 
mans must  not  get  by! 

At  dawn,  they  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


woods ;  but,  the  instant  they  emerged  into  the 
fields,  shells  and  shrapnel  poured  on  them  in 
a  torrent.  So  they  held  their  post.  Mon- 
day passed  without  their  stirring  from  those 
woods.  No  commissary  wagons  came  with 
food  —  nothing  could  live  in  the  open. 
They  munched  their  emergency  rations,  dry 
biscuits.  Monday  night,  Tuesday,  Tuesday 
night,  and  still  they  stayed.  A  dispatch 
rider,  wounded  in  the  arm,  brought  orders 
for  them  to  hold  hard  and  never  flinch. 

Nothing  to  eat  now  but  grains  of  coffee. 
The  water  was  gone  from  their  canteens,  long 
ago;  but  the  men  stretched  out  their  over- 
coats in  the  rain,  and  drank  the  pools  of 
water  as  fast  as  they  collected.  And,  al- 
ways, night  and  day,  the  thunder  of  the  Ger- 
man guns  about  them.  The  din  was  so  ter- 
rific that  the  men  had  fairly  to  shout  to  each 
other  —  they  were  almost  deaf. 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


XVII 

On  Wednesday  morning  another  messen- 
ger got  through  with  orders  to  advance. 
From  that  corpse-strewn  wood  there  emerged 
a  band  of  men  that  might  have  been  taken 
for  theatrical  desperadoes.  Uniforms  in 
shreds,  coats  gone,  shoes  gone,  knees  sticking 
through  trousers  legs,  and  elbows  through 
sleeves,  all  plastered  with  mud  to  a  uniform 
gray,  like  khaki;  wild-eyed  with  hunger  and 
reckless  now,  everyone's  nerves  on  edge, 
cursing,  weeping,  mad,  ready  for  anything 
except  more  inaction! 

Forward!  The  men,  famished  as  they 
were,  yelled  at  the  sound  of  that  welcome 
word.  Anywhere,  out  of  that  infernal  wood 
—  anywhere,  through  any  hell,  to  get  at  the 
enemy !  Forward  they  went  on  the  run  like 
hounds  after  hare,  and  the  run  warmed  them 
up.  The  sun  came  out  and  they  raced  on, 

[73] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


steaming.  "  We  didn't  mind  the  shells  at 
all,  then,"  said  Coco.  "  Lying  on  the  ground 
waiting  for  them  at  Bertrix  we  had  nothing 
to  do  but  be  afraid  —  but  now  we  had  no 
time.  All  we  thought  of  was  to  get  at  those 
cursed  '  Bosches  '  as  fast  as  we  could."  And 
so  through  the  bursting  shells,  across  the  wide 
field  to  rising  ground. 

It  was  there,  on  that  hillside,  they  got  a 
sight  of  what  had  happened  during  those 
deadly  days  along  the  Marne.  First,  rows 
and  rows  of  twisted,  limp-lying  Frenchmen, 
dead  for  long,  thrown  by  the  shells  into  hor- 
ribly fantastic  groups;  and  sickening  heads 
and  limbs  lying  scattered  alone.  Bodies 
everywhere,  mostly  resting  face  up  to  the  sky, 
eyes  open,  staring.  In  places  they  were 
stretched  regularly  in  long  straight  lines;  on 
other  fields  the  corpses  were  dotted  all  about 
singly.  "  One  had  to  jump  over  them  every 
minute,"  said  Georges.  Further  on,  the 

[74] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


French  dead  were  mingled  with  Germans, 
piled  sometimes  four  high  like  a  football 
scrimmage. 

Then,  in  a  sparsely  wooded  tract  they 
passed  the  relics  of  a  bayonet  fight  —  fear- 
ful !  Apparently,  the  French  African  troops 
had  chased  a  battalion  of  retreating  Germans 
up  against  a  wall,  and  the  bodies  were,  well 
—  the  "  Turcos  "  do  not  stab  merely  in  the 
breast  —  they  do  not  stab  merely  to  kill  — 
they  stab  anywhere,  they  stab  joyfully,  like 
demons. 

More  and  more  German  dead  were 
passed,  leaped  over,  even  trod  on  where  the 
way  was  narrow,  and  still  the  thundering  of 
cannon  came  from  every  side.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  whole  world  were  fighting  —  as  if  all 
the  old  quiet  ways  of  life  had  ceased  to  exist, 
even  in  memory.  Still  they  pushed  forward, 
marched  to  the  west  of  Vitry-le-Frangois, 
crossed  the  Marne  on  a  pontoon  bridge  at 

[75] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


Blacy  under  a  rain  of  rifle  fire,  and  hurried 
through  a  beet  field  for  a  crest  above  the 
long,  white,  poplar-lined  national  road  at 
Couvrol. 

The  "  Bosches  "  were  in  retreat  !  A 
motorcyclist,  racing  from  Vitry  to  Chalons 
with  dispatches,  had  stopped  to  yell  out  the 
news. 

As  Georges  struggled  desperately  up 
through  the  soft  loam,  his  view  was  extended 
over  the  country  about  the  Marne.  Here, 
on  those  same  wide  rolling  plains,  Attila  and 
all  his  Huns  had  fought  his  ancestors  when 
France  was  but  a  nucleus  of  scattered  Roman 
settlements  ;  and  here  that  horde  had  been  de- 
feated and  driven  back  to  their  wildernesses. 
Now,  no  matter  in  which  direction  he  gazed, 
he  could  see  the  modern  barbarians  strewing 
destruction.  Puffs  of  smoke  were  in  the  air 
everywhere,  but  thickest  about  Vitry-le-Fran- 


[76] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


The  shells  from  the  French  "75*8  "  burst 
beautifully  with  a  cloud  of  jet  black  and 
white.  The  fleecy  snowy-white  puffs,  gray 
red  in  the  center,  showed  where  the  shrapnel 
sent  its  shower  of  leaden  balls.  But,  oftener 
than  all  the  rest,  came  the  droning  "  mar- 
mites  "  of  the  German  big  guns,  bursting  with 
heavy  thunder  in  a  sudden  reddish  flash, 
changing  into  a  spume  of  drab  smoke,  edged 
with  white. 

To  the  westward,  village  after  village  was 
smoking.  Machine  guns  were  spitting, 
crackling  along  the  roads,  volleys  of  rifle 
fire  snapped  from  every  wood.  Up  and  up 
went  the  Twentieth  Regiment,  till  it  came  to 
the  top  of  the  little  hill. 

Smack-bang  in  their  faces,  a  salvo  of  bul- 
lets greeted  the  men.  Another  volley,  an- 
other! Georges,  staggering  back,  taken  by 
surprise  with  the  others,  as  men  dropped  all 
about  him,  caught  sight  on  a  low  hillside  be- 

[77] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


yond  of  a  deep  gray  mass  of  men  extended 
in  battle  front  only  a  hundred  meters  away. 
There,  waiting  to  hold  back  the  advance,  was 
at  least  a  full  regiment  of  infantry  —  one  of 
those  hundreds  of  little  rear  guards  that  were 
left  absolutely  unsupported,  to  cover  the  Ger- 
man retreat,  and  to  fight  to  the  death  without 
hope  of  success. 

The  Twentieth,  rallying  instantly,  shouted 
a  defiant  answer  to  the  German  "  Hurrahs," 
and  sent  its  volley  into  the  enemy.  Beside 
Georges,  a  man  named  Charles  Griffe,  one  of 
the  few  of  his  friends  left  from  Toulouse, 
suddenly  fell,  clasping  his  hands  over  his  head 
as  he  crumpled  down.  The  sudden  excite- 
ment seemed  to  hypnotize  Georges.  '  The 
blood  seemed  to  boil  in  my  head,"  he  ex- 
pressed it.  He  didn't  hear  the  command  to 
fix  bayonets  at  all ;  the  first  thing  he  knew  he 
was  running  like  a  machine,  yelling  with  the 
others,  down  into  the  ravine  and  up  the  other 

[78] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


side,  and  always  with  the  horror  of  those 
points  of  gleaming  steel  ahead,  climbing 
zig-zag  up  the  slope  toward  —  what  ?  It 
seemed  impossible  to  go  against  that  row  of 
sharp  bayonets  and  live. 

XVIII 

So  much  Georges  told  me ;  more  he  would 
not  tell,  at  first,  except  that  he  thought  the 
Germans  stopped  firing  at  about  thirty 
meters  distance,  and  began  to  sing  the 
"  Wacht  am  Rhein." 

Now  I  have  always  wanted  to  know  the 
details  of  a  typical  bayonet  fight  —  just  how 
the  issue  is  decided,  why  a  Frenchman  might 
not  win  here,  and  a  German  there,  and  so 
keep  the  victory  uncertain.  That,  in  fact, 
was  one  of  the  things  I  went  to  Toulouse  to 
find  out.  But,  to  get  any  vivid  picture  of 
that  bloody  encounter  was  impossible. 

[79] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


Georges  simply  shook  his  head.  "  It  was 
too  horrible,"  he  said. 

At  last  he  confessed  reluctantly  that  when 
he  saw  the  men  ahead  of  him  bayoneting  the 
Germans,  jabbing  like  madmen,  he  too  gave 
a  jump,  and  shut  his  eyes  and  stabbed  at 
something  he  had  seen  in  front  of  him,  ad- 
vancing with  a  long  steel  point  —  something 
that  suddenly  stopped  singing,  and  squealed 
"  like  a  wounded  horse,"  he  said. 

"  I  remember  only  that  I  pulled  out  my 
bayonet,  and  felt  a  jet  of  warm  blood  strike 
my  face,"  Georges  went  on,  when  I  forced 
him.  "  Then,  I  must  have  almost  fainted,  I 
think;  I  don't  know  what  happened  till  I 
found  myself  wiping  my  face,  and  something 
was  holding  me.  It  was  the  bayonet  of  that 
German's  that  was  caught  in  the  wing  of  my 
overcoat,  somehow  —  and  he  was  lying  on 
the  ground  with  the  blood  still  coming  out  of 
his  stomach.  There  were  lots  of  our  men 
[80] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


on  the  ground,  but  lots  more  of  Germans. 
The  rest  of  them  were  running;  they  were 
two  hundred  meters  away  by  this  time,  and 
our  men  were  after  them,  sticking  them  like 
pigs.  .  .  .  The  sight  of  it  made  me  sick. 
.  .  .  When  they  came  back,  I  was  standing 
there,  just  leaning  on  my  gun,  swaying  .  .  . 
and  it  was  raining  ...  I  didn't  know  it  was 
raining  at  all  till  then  .  .  .  but  the  blood 
was  almost  entirely  washed  off  my  coat.  .  .  . 
Isn't  that  enough,  m'sieur?  I  can't  bear  to 
think  about  it." 

XIX 

When  the  Twentieth  was  gathered  to- 
gether for  roll  call,  it  was  found  that  there 
were  150  dead  or  wounded.  Some  300  Ger- 
mans were  stretched  upon  the  ground.  But 
the  enemy  must  be  pursued.  So  forward, 
with  great  precautions,  to  a  farm,  their  head- 
quarters • —  but  it  was  found  to  be  empty ;  so 

[81] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


here  they  halted  for  a  rest,  the  young  men 
still  panting  with  the  exertion  and  excitement 
of  the  fight.  "  I  tried  to  smoke  my  pipe," 
said  Georges,  "  but  I  had  to  give  it  up." 

With  the  artillery  still  hammering  all 
about  —  but  mostly  the  French  batteries  of 
"  75's  "  now,  pounding  away  in  fours  —  the 
Twentieth  stayed  till  night,  and  sent  its 
wounded  to  the  rear  —  for  the  stretcher 
bearers  and  ambulances  were  right  up  behind 
these  days,  with  plenty  to  do.  Here  the  regi- 
ment received  with  yells  and  tears  the  news 
of  the  victory  of  this  five  days'  battle  of  the 
Marne.  It  was  too  good  to  be  true. 

The  captain  of  Georges's  company,  with 
his  arm  in  a  sling,  was  a  Frenchman,  and  now 
it  was  time  for  more  rhetoric.  He  had  an 
appreciative  audience,  this  time.  "  You  are 
men!  "  he  announced,  "  you  have  done  your 
duty,  and  France  is  proud  of  you."  But 
France,  it  appeared  from  his  talk,  was  not 

[82] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


yet  free;  and  the  moral  of  his  discourse  was 
that  there  was  still  considerable  work  to  do, 
and  he  ended  with  the  word  "  Forward!  " 

So,  forward  they  went,  next  morning, 
gloriously  in  pursuit  of  the  enemy,  now 
some  ten  miles  away.  Forward,  with  their 
bayonets  stained  by  German  blood  at  last. 
Forward,  all  the  forenoon,  past  villages 
wrecked  and  plundered  by  the  barbarians; 
past  houses  gutted  and  outraged  and  burned; 
past  trembling,  fear-struck  peasants  offering 
what  was  left  of  their  bread  and  wine.  For- 
ward all  the  afternoon,  along  the  roads 
strewn  with  helmets,  knapsacks,  and  empty 
wine  bottles ;  past  German  camps  in  the  open, 
littered  with  armchairs  and  clocks  and  silver 
plate,  mattresses  and  broken  pianos,  and 
bottles,  bottles,  bottles  —  with  sheep  and 
cattle  cut  open,  rotting;  past  dead  horses 
everywhere,  disemboweled,  legs  up.  For- 
ward at  sunset,  past  wrecked  automobiles, 

[83] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


burned  to  masses  of  curly  iron;  past  caissons 
smashed  by  shells,  and  bicycles  without  num- 
ber abandoned  along  the  road.  Forward,  in 
the  moonlight  across  battle  fields  where  the 
dead  lay  in  windrows  in  shocking  confusion, 
mutilated  abominably,  dead  in  the  long  fresh 
trenches,  filling  every  gallery  and  compart- 
ment, dead  in  the  woods,  dead  on  green 
meadows  where  in  the  cool  night  air  wisps 
of  trailing  mist  hovered  near  the  ground  and 
the  stench  was  in  their  nostrils  till  they  sick- 
ened and  hurried  on,  rinsing  their  mouths 
with  water ! 

Forward  across  the  swath,  leagues  wide, 
of  death  and  hate  and  ruin,  forward,  for- 
ward all  that  night ! 

XX 

Three  hours'  rest,  and  then  again  for- 
ward !  At  noon,  a  farm.  Halt!  Georges 

[84] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


was  one  of  the  three  who  went  forward, 
dodging  from  wall  to  wall,  to  reconnoiter. 
There  seemed  to  be  some  secret  hidden  there 
—  the  roof  was  blown  off,  the  windows 
smashed,  devastation  everywhere  about  — 
but  it  might  still  conceal  some  desperate  foe. 
As  he  approached  the  closed  door,  he  saw  a 
stain  on  the  stone  step,  where  a  little  dark 
stream  of  something  had  dried.  He  pushed 
open  the  door  —  butchery  I  More  than  two 
hundred  Germans  who  had  taken  refuge 
there  had  found  appalling  death  when  two 
howitzer  shells  had  converted  them  into  an 
incredible  mass  of  mere  bleeding  flesh.  No 
fear  now  need  any  Frenchman  have  of  those 
grim  Germans  —  save  only  the  fear  of  infec- 
tion. Georges  flung  back  the  door  and  fled. 

Could  he  find  worse  horrors?  Let  him 
tell. 

"  On  Friday,  after  we  had  been  relieved, 
we  were  held  in  reserve  in  the  rear,  and  de- 

[85] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 

tailed  to  pick  up  the  German  deserters  and 
waifs  that  were  hiding  in  the  woods  all  over 
the  country.  They  were  a  sorry  enough  lot, 
frightened  to  death  at  first,  when  they  threw 
up  their  hands  at  sight  of  us,  but  glad  enough 
to  be  made  prisoners  and  not  have  to  work, 
when  they  found  they  were  not  going  to  be 
killed.  After  the  wanton  destruction  of  in- 
nocent villages  we  had  seen  —  they  had  even 
destroyed  the  fire  engines  —  it  was  pretty 
hard  to  refrain  from  knocking  these  brutes 
down  with  the  butts  of  our  rifles.  We 
heard  many  stories  of  the  atrocities  they  had 
committed  in  their  baffled  rage,  but  the  one 
thing  I  saw  was  enough  for  me. 

"  We  were  marching  through  a  little  wood 
in  the  Department  of  the  Marne  —  some- 
where between  Posesse  and  Givry,  it  was,  I 
think.  The  company  ahead  suddenly  began 
to  slow  up  and  halt  —  they  were  pointing  at 
something,  but  the  officers  cried :  '  Go  on  I 
[86] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


Go  on!'  Of  course  we  were  curious  to 
know  what  it  was  they  were  looking  at,  and 
we  halted,  too.  Well,  our  officers  couldn't 
hold  us  —  or  they  didn't  try  to.  Some  of  us 
ran  up  through  the  trees  on  the  right-hand 
side  of  the  road  to  look  closer. 

"  Eight  French  soldiers,  m'sieur,  with 
ropes  round  their  necks,  hanging  to  the  limbs 
of  the  trees!  I  was  right  close  to  them.  I 
saw  them  plainly.  I  know.  They  were 
riddled  with  bullet  holes.  And  in  among 
them,  m'sieur,  was  hanging  the  body  of  a  lit- 
tle girl.  About  twelve  years  old,  I  should 
say.  She  was  shot,  too.  She  was  so  pretty. 
.  .  .  The  officers  called  us  back.  There  was 
no  time  to  cut  them  down,  even;  we  were 
hurrying  along  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  ad- 
vance. 

"  Yes,  m'sieur,  we  all  saw  it.  Why,  there 
is  a  man  in  this  very  hospital  now  who  saw  it, 
too.  Last  week  there  came  a  commissioner 

[87] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


down  here  on  purpose  to  get  our  affidavit 
about  it,  for  some  report  of  the  Govern- 
ment." 

XXI 

Georges's  story  is  almost  told,  now;  there 
remains  only  the  end  of  his  soldiering,  which 
was  to  be  eventful  to  the  last.  After  fol- 
lowing the  fighting  body  for  three  days,  the 
Twentieth  Regiment  was  ordered  into  the 
first  line. 

The  Germans,  having  now  retreated  to 
the  Aisne,  and  eastward  to  the  strategic  posi- 
tions long  since  prepared  and  mapped  by  Ger- 
man spies,  had  made  a  stand.  So  on  to- 
ward Ville-sur-Tourbes  Georges  marched, 
the  firing  every  moment  getting  hotter. 
They  were  evidently  advancing  against  a  very 
strong  position,  so  that  when  they  swung 
westward  to  the  little  village  of  Le  Mesnil 
they  began  to  be  subjected  to  continuous  shell- 
[88] 


WAR    THE     CREATOR 


ing  and  to  rifle  fire  that  grew  worse  and 
worse.  But  still  no  enemy  was  in  sight. 

Again  the  Twentieth  had  to  wait  for  the 
French  artillery  to'  arrive  in  front  of  a  black 
wood  that  poured  out  destruction.  Lying  in 
the  brush,  Georges  wondered  whether  it 
would  all  end  as  before.  As  before,  each 
man  waited  for  his  time  to  come;  but  now, 
seasoned,  hopeful,  he  could  joke  at  death. 

"  There's  a  marmite  for  you !  "  a  cor- 
poral would  sing  out,  as  a  German  shell  came 
screaming  to  the  right;  and,  as  the  shrapnel 
exploded,  "  Look  out  for  the  prunes !  "  a 
man  would  yell,  "  they're  coming  your 
way ! "  Georges  was  taking  it  all  coolly 
enough,  thinking,  he  told  me,  how  much 
those  hurtling  shells  sounded  like  a  subway 
train  rolling  into  a  station  —  rather  more  like 
an  express  traveling  past  without  stopping. 
And  so,  when  a  sergeant  near  him  yelled, 
"  Look  out  —  here  comes  our  portion !  "  he 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


only  laughed  and  ducked  under  the  little 
shelter  of  brush  and  earth  he  had  been  build- 
ing. 


But  Georges  laughed  too  soon,  he  ducked 
just  too  late!  There  was  a  terrific  explo- 
sion, and  suddenly  he  felt  paralyzed  all  over 
—  as  if  by  an  electric  shock.  No  pain  any- 
where at  first;  only  a  fearful  feeling  that 
something  dire  had  happened  to  him.  He 
was  stunned;  "sort  of  upside-down,  all 
over,"  he  said.  Dragging  himself  out  of  the 
shower  of  dirt,  dazed  and  frightened,  he  saw 
that  his  left  foot  was  covered  with  blood. 
Then,  a  sudden  leap  of  pain !  He  had  a  sav- 
age burst  of  anger  that  he  should  have  been 
so  treated.  The  pain  every  moment  grew 
more  excruciating.  .  .  . 

Just  how  he  got  to  the  rear  he  didn't  know, 
but  after  crawling  and  limping  somehow, 

[90] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


with  his  rifle  as  a  crutch,  he  found  himself  at 
last  by  the  wall  of  a  house  outside  the  village, 
and  there  he  lay  down  to  rest. 

But  there  was  to  be  little  rest  for  Georges 
Cucurou.  From  that  moment,  for  a  whole 
week,  he  lived  in  a  sort  of  waking  night- 
mare. One  foot  bare,  hopping  along,  hug- 
ging the  walls  of  the  village,  savagely  bom- 
barded by  German  batteries  —  lying  under 
big  trees,  watching  his  retreating  regiment 
leaving  him  to  almost  certain  capture  —  limp- 
ing away  on  the  arm  of  a  stray  wounded  sol- 
dier in  desperate  haste  before  the  "  Bosches  " 
came  —  that  ride  in  a  galloping  ammunition 
wagon,  bounced  and  jolted,  bouncing  into 
ditches,  bumping  over  stones  —  and  then, 
after  a  hurried  first-aid  dressing,  that  fearful 
journey  to  Ville-sur-Tourbes ! 

That  journey  —  more  than  three  miles — ; 
Georges  made  along  the  hard  macadam 
road,  crawling  on  his  hands  and  knees.  He 

[91] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


had  thrown  away  his  knapsack,  he  had 
thrown  away  his  rifle.  "  But,"  said 
Georges,  "  there  was  one  thing  I'd  have  died 
before  I'd  have  thrown  away  —  and  that 
was  that  Prussian  helmet !  "  The  last  half 
mile  he  was  carried  on  horseback,  half  faint- 
ing, behind  a  friendly  chasseur. 

That  was  but  an  incident,  however  —  the 
rest  of  his  ordeal  became  a  confused  horror 
of  days  and  days  in  a  ruined  farm,  with  a 
hundred  others  suffering  like  him,  without 
any  food,  except  unsugared  tea,  with  their 
wounds  undressed  —  at  a  farm  where  threat- 
ening German  shells  dropped  intermittently, 
keeping  up  the  constant  fear  of  death.  Then 
—  after  endless  hours,  torturing  hours  when 
he  thought  of  nothing  but  his  ankle  and  his 
stomach,  the  flying  automobiles  of  the  Red 
Cross!  Georges  was  wafted  to  a  semi- 
heaven  of  beds  and  bandages  and  women's 

[9*] 


r 


WAR    THE     CREATOR 


kindly    hands    and    faces  —  warm    food  — 
cleanliness ;  rest  —  at  Chalons ! 

Georges's  soldiering  was  over  —  over,  that 
is,  if  you  except  his  trip  to  Toulouse.  To 
some,  perhaps,  a  three  days'  railway  trip  in 
a  crowded  compartment  with  a  crushed  ankle 
might  be  considered  an  ordeal.  But  to 
Georges  it  was  a  holiday.  He  was  going 
home !  Home. 


XXIII 

At  the  beautiful  Renaissance  hospital  at 
Toulouse  on  the  Boulevard  de  Strasbourg,  I 
found  Georges  Cucurou  lying  in  the  corner 
of  a  huge  hall  —  a  splendid  hall  it  was  of 
carvings  and  arches  and  coffer-vaulted  ceil- 
ing, all  hung  with  flags. 

How  small  his  cot  looked,  there  in  the 
corner  of  that  hall,  amid  paintings  and  gild- 

[93] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


ings  and  magnificent  cornices !  How  strange 
those  nurses  looked  too  —  white-swathed 
matrons  in  flowing  draperies,  and  nuns  with 
flapping  wide  white  headdresses  gliding 
silently  along  the  parqueted  floor!  How 
strange  and  quiet  those  weak,  pale  soldiers  in 
the  cots,  and  the  patient  soldiers  sitting  about 
in  blue  uniforms,  and  white,  and  red  I  But, 
most  of  all,  how  strange  he  seemed ! 

No,  it  was  not  Coco,  any  more  —  not  Coco 
of  the  free,  airy  gestures,  Coco  of  the  big, 
innocent  eyes ;  but  some  one  who  was  content 
to  let  his  straight-forward  words  speak  for 
themselves.  Not  the  boy  with  mobile, 
parted  lips ;  but  some  one  whose  mouth  closed 
firmly,  now,  when  he  paused,  reflecting  seri- 
ously before  he  answered.  And,  as  he  spoke 
of  things  beyond  my  ken,  he  made  me,  some- 
how, feel  ashamed.  Why,  it  seemed,  now, 
that,  having  known  Death  so  near,  he  knew 
Life  itself  —  he  wag  the  wiser,  the  elder j 

[94] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


and  I  the  boy,  without  experience  save  of  the 
little  arts  and  playthings  of  the  world.  .  .  . 

Well,  it  was  time  to  go.  I  took  out  my 
notebook  to  jot  down  an  address,  and  as  I 
did  so  I  saw  his  eyes  fastened  upon  my  pencil. 
His  face  had  changed. 

Without  a  word,  he  reached  out  his  hand 
for  it.  I  understood  —  and  there  came  up 
to  me  suddenly,  a  picture  of  the  laughing  boy 
who  had  pretended  to  shoot  with  such  a 
pencil  —  and  .  .  .  even  to  give  a  bayonet 
thrust  I 

He  looked  at  it  curiously  with  a  faint 
smile.  "  A-mer-i-cain  Pencil  Compagnie  " 
he  read  with  his  queer  French  accent.  Then 
he  pressed  in  the  end,  and  a  little  point  of  lead 
popped  out.  He  laughed  —  he  sighed.  He 
handed  it  back.  There  were  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Ah,  m'sieur,"  he  said,  "  do  you  remem- 
ber that  day  in  Paris,  last  July?"  There 

[95] 


WAR     THE     CREATOR 


was  a  silence.     Then  — "  Why,  it  seems  like 
ten  years  since  then!  " 

So,  in  those  two  months,  War  the  Creator 
had  done  its  work.     Coco  was  a  man. 


[96] 


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